


Long Live the Future

by Eldalire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Addiction, Ghosts, M/M, Reincarnation, recovered alcoholic, recovering addict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 01:09:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16545911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eldalire/pseuds/Eldalire
Summary: Montparnasse moves into his first place after getting out of prison, but finds that someone--or someTHING--already calls the place home.  But his ghostly housemate has another connection to the present in the form of Montparnasse's sponsor, Feuilly.





	Long Live the Future

Montparnasse had been out of prison for exactly seven hours when he walked through the door of his new place; a small house on Faubourg Saint-Antoine, one the half-way house had helped him find and move into.  It wasn’t exactly _nice_ , but it wasn’t awful, either, and it was his, and he was actually, honestly proud of himself.

            Though only 27, Montparnasse had spent more of his life incarcerated than not.  He had committed everything from gang violence to drug possession, petty thievery to assault and battery, but, lucky for him, most of it had happened before he turned 18.  Juvenile hall wasn’t a great place to grow up, but the punishment was less harsh. 27 wasn’t old.  He could make a new start here, in his little house.

            The house was old, built in the 1800s, someone told him, and the floor creaked when he stepped over the threshold, but he continued inside and plopped his duffle over the back of the sofa.  It hadn’t occurred to him that he had so little to his name. He had the clothes he was wearing, the odds and ends that had been in his pockets when he was taken into custody (besides, of course, his pistol), and the cell phone his sponsor had provided him.  All he had to do to keep the place was get a job and stay clean…easy, he thought.  He found his bank card in his duffle and put it into his wallet before leaving the little house, off to find something to eat and maybe some new clothes.  He smiled. This was the first time he had been able to do what he wanted in five years.  
  
When Montparnasse came home, he stepped on the squeaky floorboard and put his bags of groceries and new clothes onto the table with a huff.  He was tired…a lot had happened, though it was hardly 6:30 at night.  He put his groceries away before heading over to the sofa again, flopping over the armrest and laying down, his long legs hanging off the end.  He reached for the remote on the coffee table, and found his duffle beside it.  _Weird_ , he thought, _I swear I left that on the couch._  He shrugged and flipped through the channels, recalling his old favorites.  MTV, Sci Fi.  He fell asleep to Star Wars, and stayed on the couch the rest of the night.  
  


The sun pooled on his face, shining in his eyes when he opened them the next morning.  
            “Shit I slept down here all night,” he mumbled to himself.  “First time I have a real life bed in years and I sleep on the goddam couch,” he sat up and rubbed his face with long, pale hands, a thin cotton blanket falling away and sitting on his lap, his legs and feet hanging comically out of the other end.

            “Blanket’s too small, need another one,” he stood, his bare feet arching away from the chilly floor, and stretched, his hands brushing the ceiling.  Montparnasse was very tall and thin, but deceptively strong.  He hefted the heavy duffle over his shoulder easily and headed upstairs to the bedroom for the first time since arriving.

            The bedroom was small, like the rest of the house, but cozy, in a way, with a window that looked out over the narrow street.  He folded his clothes, and was putting them into his dresser when he heard voices downstairs.  He stood stone still.  Who could it possibly be?  Why didn’t he hear the door open?  Was it his old buddies coming to get their revenge?  Montparnasse had ratted a lot of guys out for a shorter sentence…He began down the stairs slowly, and peered around the corner into the main room, where the sofa was located.  He wasn’t exactly sure what he expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t a waifish young man sitting cross-legged on his sofa, quietly watching the history channel. He was completely unaware of Montparnasse, until he made himself evident, straightening.

            “Hey!” he shouted.  The young man looked up suddenly, his blue eyes blown wide. “What the fuck are you doing?!” he looked to the door.  It was bolted shut.  “Get out of he—” the young man was gone when he looked back to the sofa, the history channel still playing on the TV.  Montparnasse searched the room, and found nothing out of order, no place to hide, and no young man.

            “Great.  Now I’m delusional,” he flipped off the TV. “Probably just old wiring or something…”he gave the room a final sweep before turning to the kitchen to start his morning coffee.  He sat at the table, facing the window, and watched as the city came to life, men and women bustling by, on their way to work.  Montparnasse didn’t start work until next week.  He had to check in to his NA sponsor tonight at six, but other than that, the day was his.

            When his coffee was finished, he put the mug into the sink and headed back upstairs to finish putting away his clothes.  But when he reached the bedroom, he found his duffle empty and all of his clothes gone.  He opened the dresser drawers and found everything folded neatly, shirts in one drawer, pants in the other, socks off to the side.  Though pleased the work had been done for him, Montparnasse was now positive someone was in his house.  He _knew_ he hadn’t put this stuff away. He hadn’t done anything so precisely in his entire life.  He straightened and furrowed his brow.

            “Feuilly?” he called.  Feuilly was his sponsor, one of very few people who knew where he lived. “Feuilly,” he attempted again, more demanding this time, honestly miffed.  Just because Feuilly was helping him kick his meth habit didn’t give him the right to come into his home whenever he pleased.  Montparnasse called him, hoping Feuilly’s cell phone ringtone would give away his location, but all he heard was the dial tone, then two rings before Feuilly picked up.

            “What’s up?” he said over the phone.  It sounded like Montparnasse had woken him up.

            “Are you here?” Montparnasse asked, continuing to search the nooks of his old house, even looking under the bed.

            “Am I where?”

            “Here.  In my house.”

            “The fuck would I be in your house?  Are you okay?  Do you need me to come over?”

            “No, I just…I think somebody’s in here.  The TV turned on and I thought I saw someone but then I didn’t, and then all my stuff was put away and—”

            “Did you relapse?  I’m coming over,”

            “No, no I’m fine, I…I don’t know, I guess it’s just my imagination or something…Maybe I’m sleepwalking,”

            “Okay just…let me know if you need anything and I’ll come right over, no problem,”

            “Yeah alright, thanks, Feuilly…” he hung up the phone.

           

            “Who’s Feuilly?” a light voice cooed, more to itself than to Montparnasse.  The hair on Montparnasse’s neck stood up, a shiver running up his spine.  He whorled around to face his bed, where he was sure the voice had come from, but there was nothing there.

            “Hello?” he said, trying to keep the fear from his voice. He had faced plenty of rough and tumble guys before, people who wanted him dead, and hardly batted an eye.  But he could see them.  He could tell where they were.  This was different.  This was weird.

            “Hello,” the voice replied, this time sounding closer to the window.  Sure enough, when Montparnasse turned, he found the same waifish young man he had seen on the sofa downstairs, sitting in the chair beside the bed, cross-legged as before.

            “What the fuck?!  Why are you—who are you?”

            “Me?” he held a willowy hand to his chest.

            “No the gremlin behind the drapes!  Yes _you_!” he approached the chair.  This guy was tiny, Montparnasse was sure he could take him out of he had to, but the guy didn’t seem keen on fighting him.  In fact, he hardly moved.

            “No need for sarcasm, I haven’t had much company these past few years,” he ran his fingers through the bottom of his messy braid.

            “Dude, get out of my house,”

            “I covered you up, I folded your clothes, I locked the door for you, and this is my thank you?  I was here first,” he retorted jokingly, a charming smile on his pale face. 

            “Are you a squatter or something?” Montparnasse grit his teeth.  He wanted to punch this smug little bastard, but the promise of more prison time was enough to make him think twice.

            “No,” he shook his head. “Why are you so angry?”

            “Because there is a strange man in my house.  Who are you?” he asked again.  The young man seemed to recoil just a tad at his tone.

            “My given name is Jean, but most people call me Jehan instead,” he scratched at his arm absently, his shirt slightly too big.

            “Well, Jean, I would appreciate it if you left my house,” he held open the bedroom door and pointed out into the hallway, giving the young man the boot.

            “I’m very sorry but I can’t,” Jehan replied, making no move to get up from the chair in the corner.

            “I’m going to call the police,” Montparnasse took his phone out of his pocket.

            “Oh don’t do that, it really isn’t necessary,” he stood and waved his hand dismissively.  Montparnasse’s phone screen flashed twice before going black, the apple symbol glowing in the middle before it shut off altogether. Montparnasse tossed his phone onto the bed as it sent a freezing shock through his arm.

            “Jehan you’re really freaking me out, now,” he said, his eyes wide, but his hands fisted at his sides.  This guy broke into _his_ house, he had the right to defend his property, right?  He was sure he did.  He took a step towards Jehan, hoping he looked menacing, but Jehan just looked up at him, his hands held up as if declaring innocence.

            “I don’t want any trouble, really,” he said quite seriously, looking Montparnasse in the eyes.

            “Then leave before I punch your lights out,” he replied harshly

            “I told you, I can’t leave, I have to stay here,”

            “Says who?”

            “I don’t know!” He said finally.  “I’m never sure what to say when people come to live here…”

            “What are you talking abo—?”

            “I think I might be dead,” Jehan suddenly blurted. Montparnasse furrowed his brow and shook his head, confused.

            “Actually I’m quite positive I’m dead,” he added quietly after a moment of tense silence.

            “Like…A ghost?” Montparnasse asked.  Quite honestly, it made a lot of sense.  How else could he have gotten inside without Montparnasse knowing, or disappear in the blink of an eye?

            “Yes I think so,” he wrung his hands, “I never know how to tell people.  I try to do friendly things, but I suppose even that is quite frightening,”

            “Yeah, just a little!” Montparnasse sat down heavily on the bed, looking to Jehan in the chair, unsure of how to proceed.  Unsure if he was even really awake.  “Why do you hang around here?  Did you die in the house?” he asked after a long moment, mildly grossed out.  What if Jehan died in his bed?  Ew.

            “Oh no, not here,” he replied, “at least not in this house. In this spot, yes, but not the house. The house came later,” he recalled. Montparnasse looked a bit more closely at Jehan as he sat on the chair by the window.  Though he looked solid, there was a sort of fuzziness to him where the light hit his shoulder and face, and he was pale as…well…a ghost.  But he did have a long, red braid that looked very much alive, and blue eyes Montparnasse was sure looked rather nice when he was living.  After thinking about it for a minute or two, Jehan’s clothing did seem rather outlandish. He was in a cream colored button-up shirt that was a size too big, and an untied black cravat hung loosely around his neck.  His pants were of a brown linen sort of material, and they were just a tad too small, exposing his ankles, on which he wore two different socks.  He also wore a pair of laced leather shoes that looked like they had seen better days.  He certainly wasn’t dressed for modern day France.

            “When?” Montparnasse asked.

            “When what?” Jehan replied.  He seemed a bit vague, preoccupied, like he couldn’t keep his attention focused.  He rubbed at the side of his head.

            “When did you…like…pass,” he continued, unsure how to say it.  Was he dead? But he couldn’t be _dead_ dead, he was talking to him!  This was sorta messed up, and Montparnasse wasn’t entirely sure what was happening yet.

            “Pass wha—Oh you mean died,” he leaned forward and held his ankles in his willowy hands as he sat on the chair, as if readying himself to tell a good story.  “1832. June 6th, I believe.  A Wednesday,” he turned and looked out the window, down to the cobbled street below, smiling, apparently finished talking. But Montparnasse had more questions.

            “How?  How old were you?  Do you look the same?” Jehan rubbed at the side of his head again.

            “Goodness gracious, so many questions,” Jehan mumbled to himself.  “You haven’t even told me your name yet,”

            “Can you really blame me, though?  I didn’t even think ghosts were real like half an hour ago!”

            “I’m just not used to the company, I suppose. Nobody’s lived here for…hm…five years, I’d say.  Not so long, but it’s a long time when you haven’t got anyone to talk to,”

            “Okay, well talk now.  How’d you die?”

            “It’s so strange how preoccupied the living are with death,” he said, seeming distant again.  “I wish I had lived more, when I could.  I wanted to see the world, but I suppose now I never will.  Living people shouldn’t think about death so much and think about living a little bit more,” Montparnasse sighed.

            “You sound like my NA group leader,” he scoffed.

            “What is an ‘N A leader?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

            “Narcotics Anonymous.  They didn’t have meth in the 1800s?” he chuckled.

            “We did not,” he replied.

            “It’s a drug.  It gets you high, like…it makes you feel good,”

            “And you have a group leader that gives it to you?” he asked.  Montparnasse laughed.

            “Fuck no!  You get addicted to it.  It makes you feel awesome the first time, but then you’re hooked and you can’t stop on your own, so you go to a group to help you quit,”

            “Ah I see,”

            “Now you answer my question,”

            “But which one?  You asked so many,” he smirked and raised his eyebrows.

            “I want to know how you died.  You look so young, were you sick or something?” Now it was Jehan’s turn to chuckle.  “What’s funny?”

            “I had a friend, Joly, he always told me I looked sickly.  I just got so absorbed in my reading and poems, I would sit for hours and hours in the dark with a candle, I’d forget to eat!  That just reminded me of him…” he looked out the window again, sadly this time. He was silent for a while, and Montparnasse didn’t pry.  After a long moment, Jehan said “I was shot,”

            “Like with a gun?  Why?”

            “Because I wished to live so badly, I would risk that life for another, better one, where everyone could be free of oppressive government and regulation and taxes and kings…I took the risk, and, well, here we are,” he shrugged.  “I’m just so very optimistic, I thought we might succeed, that the rebellion would be heard and listened to, but it wasn’t to be.”

            “So you were killed in a rebellion?  You don’t look like much of a fighter to me,” Montparnasse said, his interest piqued.  Jehan was right.  The living were preoccupied with death, and he couldn’t help but he curious.

            “I wasn’t,” he smiled, “I had hoped to win with words. I tried, but the moment I left the barricade, I was…made an example of, I suppose,” he rubbed his head.

            “That’s where you were shot?” Jehan nodded.

“I was quite afraid,”

Montparnasse clasped his hands in his lap and looked down sadly.  He had held a gun to a guys head.  He had scared the shit out of a guy no older than Jehan looked.  He had watched guys die.  Were they like Jehan now?  Stuck someplace, in some old warehouse, for eternity?  And for what?  Nothing worth dying over.

“Did it…did it hurt?” he asked, tears stinging behind his eyes.  He swallowed them.  Montparnasse never cried.  Jehan thought for a long moment, squinting his big blue eyes.

“No,” he said finally.  “No I don’t think it did.  I heard it, but I don’t think I felt much of anything.  What’s strange, though, is that I remember hitting the ground.  I remember the stones were cold and I thought it felt very pleasant against my face because I was so hot with the fear of everything,”

“Then what?”

“Then Courfeyrac, one of my friends, he came and carried me back to our side of the barricade and laid me inside the pub with the others, but I was already gone by then,”

“And your friends?  What happened to them?”

“None of them made it out.  Nobody made it out.  But when all of them were taken by their families or buried wherever else, I couldn’t leave.  I had to stay in the pub, even when my brother carried me away.” He seemed to sigh, looking out the window again.  He seemed to find solace in the sky, and looked to it, to the fluffy white clouds. “A few years after that, the pub was torn down, and then this house was built.  And now I’m here!” he gave a little smile.  Montparnasse did not.  “Will you answer my question now?”

“Huh?  Oh yeah, sure,” Montparnasse shook himself from his thoughts.

“Who is Feuilly?”

“Feuilly’s my sponsor,” he replied simply, puzzled.  “Why?” Jehan shrugged, but Montparnasse could tell by the look in his eyes he wasn’t saying something.  But he could respect that, and decided not to press.

“What does a sponsor do?  What is he sponsoring?”

“He sort of…looks out for me, I guess.  If I feel like doing drugs, I can call him whenever and he’ll come and help me out, make sure I don’t do it,”

“Oh.  That sounds like something he would do,” Jehan smiled, and Montparnasse raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah…I guess,” Jehan was weird.  “How old were you when you died?” he asked.

“23.  How old are you?”

“27,”

“How old is Feuilly?”

“Why are you so interested in Feuilly?”

“He…I mean, not _him_ but one of my…friends…his name was Feuilly, and I just wondered if they were the same age, is all,”

“Oh…um…I think he’s 27 too.  He’s been clean for a long time, though,”

“What does that mean?” Jehan asked, finally moving from the chair and situating himself on the bed beside Montparnasse.  Though the mattress dipped slightly, it did not dip as much as he expected it to under Jehan’s ‘weight’.  It was strange and unnerving, but the smile he got hearing about Feuilly made Montparnasse smile as well.

“It means he stopped using.  He doesn’t drink anymore,”

“Alcohol, you mean?”

“Yeah,”

“Absinthe?” Jehan asked with a small grin.  Montparnasse nodded, his eyes wide, spooked.

“How’d you know?”

“My Feuilly used to drink it.  He had a glass every night.  Sometimes two,”

“My Feuilly had way more than two a night,” he said with a small snort of a laugh.

“I always thought it was a nice color, but I was never one for it myself. I much prefer brandy,” he said, “ _Eau de vie_ , they called it; water of life. I thought that was quite romantic,”

“You’re a funny guy, Jehan,” he said, laying back on the bed, his feet still on the floor.  Jehan looked down to him.

“Lots of people have said that about me,”

“So did everyone who’s lived here know about you?”

“Most of them.  There was only one man and his wife that did not know I was here.  He was quite horrible to her, so I would make sure he spilled his beer bottles and that the shower water scalded him and things like that,” he shrugged. “She was lovely, though.  I suspect she knew I was here.  She would say ‘thank you’ to the air sometimes, if I covered her when she slept on the sofa or kept her flowers watered on the windowsill,”

“But you told everyone else?”

“Yes, I think so…I get careless, sometimes, then I feel guilty and make myself known.  Like this morning when I was watching the television,” he smiled.  “I didn’t see you go upstairs, and I thought you’d gone out for the day.  I quite like the television.  You can see so many things without having to go anyplace,”

“Yeah…I guess it’s sorta cool,” Montparnasse agreed.  He had never really thought about it before  He shut his eyes as he lay on the bed

“The old man who lived here before you always left it on for me when he left for the day.  His cat was quite frightened of me, though.  But he was a very kind old man.  Pierre was his name, and his cat was Lily,”

“So Jehan,” Montparnasse began, “do you just hang around all the time?  Like, just watching me do shit?  Can you make yourself invisible or…?  How does this work?”  Jehan smiled.

“I’m usually quiet.  I try not to be a bother.  I’m just chatty today because I’ve been lonely for a good while, but I do tire out. It takes quite a bit of energy to really _be_ here.  Most of the time I’m sort of…I don’t know.  It’s hard to say.  I suppose it’s like sleeping, but I’m not all in one place.  I sort of…settle.  Like dust or cobwebs.  I’m just sort of there but not doing much, until I’ve collected myself again.  Then I might watch the television or listen to the radio or open the drapes.  But for whatever reason, you’ve made me feel very awake.  I almost feel like something very good is about to happen, and I don’t want to miss it,”

“Just don’t watch when I’m taking a leak, okay?  I got enough of that in prison,” Jehan laughed.

“I swear it on my life,” he joked.

“Thanks, Jehan,” he rolled his eyes.

“Any time, um…”

“Montparnasse,”

“Montparnasse,” Jehan repeated.

 --o0o--

            “So what was that call all about this morning?” Feuilly asked when he met Montparnasse at the coffee shop before his NA meeting that evening.

            “There is some weird shit going on in that house,” he said, taking a sip from his mug.

            “Well what’s going on?  Do you need another place?”

            “Oh no, it’s fine,” he replied quickly.  “I like it, it’s just,” he paused.  He wasn’t sure if he should tell Feuilly about Jehan. The last thing he wanted was for Feuilly to think he relapsed and was off his rocker again.  It was a pretty ridiculous story.  ‘Oh yeah, it’s a great place!  It came with a ghost named Jehan who waters plants and tucks me in at night!’ totally reasonable.  That didn’t sound like a fever dream at all.

            “Just what?” Feuilly prodded, looking for a better answer.  He worried about Montparnasse.  He had been in his shoes before, and it was tough.  He just could never feel as _right_ as he felt when he was drunk, and he suspected Montparnasse felt the same way about his drug of choice.  But drinking wasn’t getting him anywhere fast, besides dead.  He didn’t need that.  Not anymore. He only wished he could get that feeling again, that feeling of being nearly content, so close to where he felt like himself.  He always felt out of place, but when he was drunk off his ass on absinthe, the feeling went away.  Problem was, it also made his job go away.  And his family.  And his health and his whole life.  He just had to learn to live without that feeling, or he wouldn’t be able to live at all.

            “Nothing,” Montparnasse replied after thinking a moment. “It just makes weird noises, like it’s haunted or something,”

            “I highly doubt it’s haunted,” Feuilly laughed.

            “I just keep like, forgetting I did stuff and then finding it done later, I guess,” not a lie…not really.  He did find his clothes folded and put away, and he didn’t remember doing it.  Because Jehan did it.  But that was an extraneous detail.

            “Alright.  As long as it’s cool with you, it’s fine with me,” he shrugged, finishing his own cup of coffee.  “Ready to go?”

            “Yeah.  Let’s blow this joint,” he stood and smiled, paying at the counter and following Feuilly out.

 --o0o--

A week went by uneventfully. Montparnasse started his job at the local bank, and Jehan, apparently exhausted from his lengthy chat with his new roommate, hadn’t shown himself about the house for some time.   Things were quiet, normal, for the first time in Montparnasse’s life.  So quiet, in fact, he had completely forgotten about Jehan when he stumbled inside late with a girl he met at a concert in the park.

            Her name was Eponine, and Montparnasse thought she was perfect.  They were hardly in the door before she had his shirt off, and he sat her on the sofa and kissed her.

            It didn’t take long for things to move to the bedroom, and when they did, strange things started to happen.  
            It started slowly, almost unnoticeable.  Montparnasse’s phone flashed twice, then turned off.  Then Eponine shivered below him.

            “That excited already?” he smirked.  “I still have my undies on,” she laughed.

            “I’m actually cold,” she replied, “but I am also excited,”

            “Well let’s put a blanket over this party and get it started,”

            “Are you always this cheesy?”

            “Only when I like someone a lot,” he admitted with a shrug.

            “So the answer is yes, you are always this cheesy,” he silenced her with a kiss, and the moment he did, the lamp on the dresser wobbled.  Eponine didn’t notice.  Montparnasse caught it out of the corner of his eye, and was suddenly self conscious. Did they have an audience?  Jehan didn’t seem like that kind of guy, but then again, they had only spoken for what?  An hour?  And he couldn’t have gotten much action being like, dead.  Ugh weird thoughts.  He did his best to focus on Eponine.

            “Everything okay?” she asked.

            “Great,” he smiled. 

            Montparnasse and Eponine were both breathlessly entangled when the strange things going on around the room became unquestionable. The very second Montparnasse collapsed beside her on the bed, the lamp on the bedside table flickered to life, then the bulbs blew out in a shower of sparks.  Eponine screamed, startled, pulling the blankets up to her neck, sitting up.

            “The fuck was that?” she asked, wide eyed and laughing, looking to Montparnasse.

            “This place is haunted,” he said honestly.  Eponine took it as a joke.

            “More like ancient,”

            “I’m serious.  I’ve got a ghost,”

            “Spooky,” she kissed him.

 

 

When Eponine left early the next morning, Montparnasse sat on the sofa and looked around the room. He wasn’t really sure what he was looking for, but he did know what he wanted to say.

            “Jehan, that can’t keep happening,” he said to the air. “I need a little privacy,”

            “I don’t mean to do it,” a tiny voice replied faintly. Montparnasse felt Jehan’s signature freeze and looked to the chair beside the TV.  Sure enough, Jehan had appeared, not quite as solid as before, but there, nonetheless.  “It all has to do with energy.  When there’s lots of energy around, I just…I don’t know.  It’s strange,”

            “We have to figure something out, then, because you’re going to scare away potential girlfriends,”

            “You mean that girl wasn’t already your girlfriend?” he asked, his eyes wide.

            “You sound like my dad,”

            “Does Feuilly do that?” he asked.  Montparnasse shrugged.

            “I don’t know.  Why?  Why are you so interested?  I mean, you told me you had a friend named Feuilly, but it’s obviously not the same guy. Even if he hadn’t died during your rebellion or whatever, he’d be like, 200 years old,”

            “Oh I know, I just…I’m just curious, I suppose.  I like to think somehow it’s him, even though I know it’s not.  Hearing about _your_ Feuilly makes me less sad about losing _my_ Feuilly,”

            “I guess I can understand that,” he shrugged. Ghosts have feelings?

            “So does Feuilly have a girlfriend?” he asked, placing his chin on his hands in his lap.

            “To be honest with you, I think he’s gay,”

            “Why would he not be gay?  Has something upset him?” Jehan asked, concerned.  “Well I mean, perhaps he isn’t _always_ gay, but surely he’s at least _pleased_ or _contented_ ,”

            “The fuck are you talking about?  He’s gay like, homosexual.  Like, he likes guys,”

            “Really?!” Jehan gushed, far too excited.  But he seemed to realize and quelled his excitement. “I mean, you think he is?  Is he with anyone?”

            “I don’t know, but does it even matter?  It’s not like you could ever be with him,” Was that terrible to say?  But how could it be terrible, it’s not like Feuilly was the same guy Jehan knew 200 years ago.  But Jehan rubbed at his temple, and he seemed to disintegrate into the air, like a vapor. Montparnasse was suddenly struck with a bit of guilt.  He didn’t mean to make Jehan feel bad…

            “I’m supposed to meet with him later…I’ll have him come over here instead of the coffee shop, okay?” he said to the air. He felt a chilly hand on his shoulder and took that as agreement.

 

            Feuilly knocked on the door a few hours later, and Montparnasse opened the door.

            “Wow.  You really jazzed the place up,” he said with a smile as he entered the little house.  “I didn’t know you had a green thumb,”

            “Oh.  Yeah, I guess I do,” he replied.  The plants that simply covered the windowsills were all tended by Jehan. 

            “Cool carpet, too.  And curtains.  Looks like you’re doing really well, Montparnasse,” he smiled.

            “Well here, why don’t you sit and I’ll start the tea,” he took the box of donuts from Feuilly and placed them on the table with a few paper plates before starting the kettle.  When he looked back towards the table, he saw Jehan, standing stone still, pressed into the corner of the room.  His eyes were wide, and tears fell from them, dripping from his chin and dematerializing before hitting the ground.  Montparnasse raised an eyebrow at him, as if to ask what was wrong. Jehan’s mouth quirked into a tiny smile, then he faded from sight.  Feuilly lifted his head to look at Montparnasse, saw his expression, then looked over his shoulder, confused.

            “What’s up?” he asked when he saw nothing there.

            “Oh sorry!  I already told you, I think this place is haunted,” he joked, faking a grin.

            “Yeah sure, whatever,” he replied with a chuckle, his missing first-molar becoming obvious.  He had explained to Montparnasse he lost it in a bar fight years ago, and never had the money or the motivation to get it properly fixed. He returned his attention to his donut. “Hey ‘Parnasse, where do you keep your g—” he looked up, and his donut fell from his hand, landing frosting-side-down on his plate with an audible ‘pluft’.  Montparnasse turned around, concerned, and found Feuilly’s eyes wide, locked with Jehan’s as he sat cross-legged on the facing chair.  “Who is this?” he asked, obviously spooked, but with a strange sort of look in his eyes, as if trying to remember something.

            “Um…This is…um—” he wasn’t sure what to say.  He never pictured himself in this situation, and hadn’t actually thought Jehan would materialize.  He thought it might bring him some peace to see that Montparnasse’s Feuilly wasn’t the same Feuilly Jehan had known, but it appeared that Jehan’s plans were different.

            “Prouvaire,” Jehan said in little more than a whisper, completing Montparnasse’s thought, though Montparnasse had never heard Jehan’s surname before.  Feuilly shook his head, lost for words. 

            “Jehan Prouvaire?” Feuilly replied equally as softly. Now it was Montparnasse’s turn to be spooked.

            “Wait, you… you know his name?” he asked, but Feuilly seemed entranced, lost in Jehan’s face.

            “I missed you so,” Jehan said through tears, though he smiled brightly.  Feuilly smiled and reached across the table and placed his hand on Jehan’s, and to Montparnasse’s surprise, it seemed solid, and their fingers laced together.

            “You…you died.  You died and I never got to see you…” Feuilly said, becoming distraught, his hands shaking visibly in Jehan’s as tears fell in shining streaks down his face.

            “I know,” Jehan said, silencing him, running his fingers gently over Feuilly’s knuckles as he held his hand.  “I know…I waited too long.  I mean…I never told you what I should have told you,”

            “What?  What do you mean?”

            “I was going to tell you after…but there wasn’t an after—”

            “What did you want to tell me?”

            “That I loved you, Feuilly,”

Every light in the house turned on, and the entire world seemed to go quiet, all of nature focused in on that one moment.  Even Montparnasse, who watched the entire exchange, was entranced.  Even Feuilly said nothing as he stood from his chair and looked down to Jehan, who seemed to brace himself for the oncoming rejection. But instead, in a single, fluid motion, Feuilly pulled Jehan up from his chair, into his arms, and together, culminating in a kiss so deep, 186 years fell away, and every light bulb shattered. A blinding white light filled the room, so harsh, Montparnasse had to look away, but after glowing strong for a few seconds, the light dimmed and shimmered out, leaving only Montparnasse and Feuilly standing in the sunlit room, glass shards sparkling on the floor. The air itself seemed golden, as though a sunset shone through the window, though it was midday. 

            After standing in silence for a long moment, Montparnasse approached Feuilly, stepping over the glass shards and placing a hand on his shoulder.

            “You okay?” he asked.  Feuilly seemed stunned, lost, but with a sort of relieved look Montparnasse had never seen cross his face before.  He gave no reply for a minute, then took a deep breath and nodded.

            “Let’s get this place cleaned up,” he gave a little smile.

 

 

 

 

So if things weren’t exactly clear, I meant this to read as Feuilly being reincarnated over and over and over again, his soul searching for Jehan though he didn’t consciously know it until they finally met.  Jehan, on the other hand, hung around in the place he died, waiting for Feuilly to eventually find him.  Jehan had planned to profess his affections upon the victory of the rebellion, but, obviously, never got the chance.  This unfulfillment preventing him from ‘moving on’. 

 

Feuilly’s addiction to absinthe was meant to be his tie to his past life.  He had enjoyed the drink as a young man in 1832, probably shortly before the beginning of the rebellion that would ultimately end his life. Thus, the last time his soul was truly happy was in 1832, drinking absinthe with his friends.  Because of this, he is plagued with addiction in his reincarnations, subconsciously striving to experience that happiness once again.  I imagine Feuilly’s past incarnations were also drawn to it, and perhaps he died of addiction in another past, before modern treatments.  After reconnecting with Jehan, Feuilly’s addiction and attraction to the drink completely disappeared, and he never had the urge to drink again.

 

I hope you enjoyed the story!  Please let me know what you thought, I love reading comments!  
  
PS I apologize for making this one massive chapter, but it wasn't breaking up in a way that made sense, so I just left it as one chapter.  Hope nobody minds!


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